The Meridians Read online

  The

  Meridians

  by

  Michaelbrent Collings

  Copyright © 2010 by Michaelbrent Collings

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the author. For information send request to [email protected].

  website: www.michaelbrentcollings.com

  email: [email protected]

  Cover image used under license by Shutterstock and Shutterstock.com.

  DEDICATION

  To...

  Orson Scott Card, who inspired this book by telling me I could do better...

  My family, for putting up with some VERY long hours at the computer...

  and to Laura, FTAAE.

  ***

  1.

  ***

  Adrian Vedstedder had been known by many names in his life. As a man who contracted to do certain things that others could not or would not do, he had to be willing and able to switch names and identities at the slightest hint of danger. But though he had possessed no fewer than twenty names in his life - all of them real, all of them supported by legitimate identification cards tied to real social security numbers, for Adrian Vedstedder only purchased the best when he was buying something for himself - though he had been known by many names and had had to reinvent himself many times, never had he lost sight of who he really was.

  Adrian Vedstedder was a killer. And he loved his job.

  Today promised to be a good day; a day that marked the start of a new contract. He got an email on his special account, the one that was based out of a server and a network located in one of the smaller European countries. The email simply gave a dollar figure, as most of them did.

  The amount of money was more than enough, so Adrian emailed back, describing the location of a dead drop in a nearby park and giving the anonymous "donor" about one half an hour to get there. It was doable by anyone with enough power to get the money together that Adrian required to perform his special services, but not by local or even federal law enforcement agencies. That was the first line of defense against capture.

  The second line of defense came when Adrian pulled up near the dead drop less than five minutes later. He watched the few people in the area carefully, alert for anything that smelled of this being an undercover or sting operation. If it was such an endeavor, the rules were simple: first, Adrian would make sure he could escape, and second, if he was able to he would put a bullet in the brain of every person involved in the trap.

  There were no indicators that this was a trap, however, and in twenty minutes a man came up with a medium size paper bag that he deposited in the trash can. Adrian, who had come prepared, dressed lightly and wearing a pair of crutches, asked a passing jogger if he could throw away an empty Coke can for Adrian. The jogger obliged, and as he threw away the empty can, Adrian scanned the area for any movement or any signs that law enforcement was nearby.

  Nothing. No walking lovers who appeared more interested in the trash can than in each other. No joggers on the verge of crashing because they were worried about the trash can and not where they were putting their feet. No glints of light in the trees nearby that would signal watchers with binoculars.

  A few moments later, Adrian limped over to the trash can, acting like an itinerant wanderer interested in nothing more interesting than possible recyclables. He reached in and swiftly recovered the package that had been dropped there, then moved away without dawdling, but without moving overly fast, either.

  Once back at his safe house - a ramshackle place in a poor part of the city - Adrian opened the package. Inside was a sum of money - the exact amount named in the email, in fact - and three photos. One man, one woman, one child. Each photo had a name written below it. The man: Scott Cowley. The woman: Amy Cowley. The child: Chad Cowley.

  That was it. There was nothing else, no other indicators of what the money was for or who the people were. That was best. Even if Adrian were arrested at this point, he could claim that he was simply dumpster diving, just as many of the denizens of this part of the city were wont to do from time to time, and had simply found the cash. It was a thin story, and any cop worth his or her salt would know it was false - but knowing was not proving in a court of law, and Adrian knew that he would walk if someone came barging through his door at this point.

  But Adrian did know what the photos were for, and what the money represented.

  He turned the photos over. As was the custom for his jobs, the pictures were labeled, one, two, and three, setting forth the order of the extermination. The child was to be killed first, the woman second, and the man third. There were no other instructions, save on the last photo, which had a written statement to be made to the third target before termination.

  Adrian turned on his computer, a surprisingly high-tech and well appointed model for such an otherwise dilapidated apartment, and began researching the family. It used to be much harder to conduct such searches, but with the advent of the internet, he could almost always find out what he needed to know - or at least find out a good place to start - by simply entering a search for the people in question.

  After a few minutes, he had found his starting point.

  The man was a police officer.

  Adrian sat back, looking at the photo, and smiled. Killing police always had a special zest to it for him. They all thought they were so righteous, so perfect, that they seemed to think they were protected from the ills that plagued others. As though guardian angels watched over them.

  But put a bullet in their brains - or as in this case, in the brains of Scott Cowley and the brains of his wife and child - and they bled and died just like anyone else.

  ***

  2.

  ***

  Scott Cowley did not particularly like fairy tales.

  To him, they always seemed too saccharine, too sappy. Even the older versions, where Cinderella's sisters were willing to cut their own feet to fit into the magic slipper, even the ones where the heroes and heroines were not guaranteed a happy ending, even those were still too hard for him to read, and it was all for one reason: "Once upon a time."

  Once upon a time was just so nebulous. What, had Prince Charming never been a baby? Had he never peed in his father's open mouth the way Scott's own son had once done before Scott learned to keep his mouth tightly shut when changing the boy's diapers? Had Rapunzel never learned to read and write before her hair got so long that spending her time on anything other than tending it became a physical - if not moral - impossibility? "Once upon a time" implied that somehow, all those fairy tales and all their characters just sprang to life fully formed, like a Greek god. It just didn't sit right with Scott.

  That was why his marriage to Amy was so odd. Because in his mind, it began once upon a time.

  Once upon a time, there were two people, named Amy and Scott. And the reason they began once upon a time was because Scott could not remember a time without her. It was as though she had sprung fully formed into his life: a child he remembered in his earliest memories. A girl he had spent every day in high school with. A woman who had moved from the small town of Meridian, Idaho, to follow him to college in Los Angeles. A bride he had wedded his first year at the Academy. A mother who bore him their son and then raised him so well that Scott sometimes felt like simply standing beside her and admiring as she did her work.

  Once upon a time, there were two people, named Amy and Scott. And once upon a time, he fell in love with her. And now it was decades later, and every day was still once upon a time, because he was livin
g in his own fairy tale, and it was a fairy tale that, like his life with Amy, had begun once upon a time - because they were one and the same.

  Now, he watched her walking in front of him. She was beautiful, like a fairy, a creature that never quite stopped moving, any more than a breeze stopped moving. To stop moving would be death to a breeze, and surely death to her, to this creature who was so beautiful that she could capture hearts with a smile, yet so strange that she had chosen to love him.

  He smiled, and smiled still more as he watched her holding hands with their son. Chad was eight, and beautiful as his mother was, as though both of them had fallen from the same neighborhood in Heaven and against all odds had reunited in the earthly form of his family. Though if Amy was a breeze, Chad might be a full-blown gale: just as incessantly moving, but somehow more grand, more loud, more present than anyone Scott had ever seen before.

  He and Amy talked about it some nights, after making love, when they were in one another's arms and talking about the same thing they always did during their pillow talk: their family - what it was and what it would one day become. And when they spoke about Chad, both of them agreed that he was something special, something powerful and wonderful and good packed into a small body that would one day grow to become a man who would - no doubt - change the world in great and meaningful ways. He might become a brilliant scientist, or a famous artist, or even - God willing - a good husband and father. But no matter how he channeled his energies, he was special, and there was no doubt about that.

  Amy turned at that moment, half-swiveled her body as she looked at some fruit in a street-vendor's stand, and Scott quickly dodged behind a nearby trash bin. He had nothing to hide, but he loved to follow them, loved to watch them both from afar as they did nothing more nor less miraculous than living.

  Once upon a time, Scott Cowley had a family.

  Amy turned back a moment later, and resumed her walk, still holding Chad's hand in her own. Chad's other hand was also holding something: a pretend police badge that Scott had given him for his eighth birthday a few weeks before. It wasn't much, it wasn't a trip to Disneyland or a real pony or a trust fund, because they were still a relatively young family and though Scott had finally made Detective the year before he was also supporting a stay-at-home family in Los Angeles on a cop's salary, which meant that every penny was spoken for, every dollar spent almost before it was earned. But in spite of the relative paucity of the presents, Chad's eighth birthday had been a special one, with enough presents to feel like a birthday and enough love to feel like a true party. Scott gave him the badge almost as an afterthought, and yet it was that toy that Chad had gravitated toward and used almost every single day since then, playing cops and robbers in a lovely world where the bad guys were always caught; where justice always prevailed.

  Scott watched them walk for almost a quarter-mile before he finally did what he always did: he reached into his pocket, past the bulge under his armpit where he wore his firearm, and pulled out a cell phone. He increased his speed, coming to within a half-block of his family, then dialed a number. Ahead of him, he could barely hear the electronic chirp as Amy's own cell phone rang. She pulled it from her pocket, and he heard a click on his own phone as she answered.

  "Hello?" she said.

  “Hello, beautiful,” he answered.

  “Scott!”

  Upon hearing his name, Chad shouted, "Is that Daddy?"

  "He's on the phone," said Amy, and handed the boy the cell phone.

  "Hi, Daddy," said Chad. "Where are you?"

  "Right behind you, kid," answered Scott. Chad turned, and even at this distance Scott could see the grin that widened his son's features and made them even more beautiful, if that were possible. Chad waved the hand with the badge at Scott. "I see you, Daddy," he shouted, glee making his voice almost loud enough to be heard without use of the cell phone.

  “And I see you, bud,” answered Scott.

  Ahead, he saw his son thrust the phone back to his mother, then grab her hand and start pulling at her. "Hide from Daddy, Mommy! Hide from Daddy!"

  Scott heard his son's laugh, and it warmed him like a cup of hot chocolate on a cold winter's day. Once upon a time, Scott had a son, and his son's laugh was magic.

  Amy had barely a second to say into the phone, "Looks like you're going to have to chase us, honey," before she hung up and ran with her son.

  Scott put his own cell phone back into his pocket, almost scratching himself on the LAPD badge – a larger version of the one his son held – that hung from his belt. He laughed and gave chase, going slowly so as not to gain ground too quickly - wouldn't want to disappoint Chad - but catching up, bit by bit.

  His family disappeared around a corner, and he followed the laughter, bright as sunlight in this moonless, starless city of the Angels where the city lights had long ago chased away the sky. Scott turned the corner as well, moving quickly onto an adjoining street, laughing like the worst kind of madman: the kind of man who has somehow managed to find a way to be truly happy.

  Then the laughter died in his throat. Like most cops, Scott had a kind of sixth sense that often activated before his other five senses picked up on anything; a subconscious feeling that something was amiss.

  He cast his gaze about, looking for his family. Visible only a second before, they were now nowhere to be seen.

  Then he heard a short yelp. A child's cry.

  He looked to the sound and saw...his wife's feet, kicking, flailing as she was dragged into a dark alleyway.

  Chad was nowhere to be seen.

  "Amy!" shouted Scott, and drew his gun at the same instant. He flicked the safety off, which was technically a violation of LAPD rules, but dammit this was his family and he was not going to wait until the last second to be ready to kill or be killed. The handsome prince didn't wait until the dragon shot its flame before drawing his sword. No, he went into the castle armed and ready to destroy anything that stood between him and happily ever after.

  Scott ran to the alley.

  All sound faded. All Scott could hear was his own tortured, panicked breathing; his own arrhythmic heartbeat.

  Complete silence, save only the sound of blood pumping in his ears.

  Amy's feet disappeared into the darkness of the alley.

  Silence.

  Then, at last, a pair of hard, fast sounds pierced the night: two gunshots.

  Scott ran the rest of the way into the alley, but he knew what he would find there. That sixth sense was active as it had never been before, telling his cop self what he was going to find before he even got there.

  Two bodies, intermingled and holding hands in death as they always had in life.

  One hand holding a phone. One hand holding a plastic badge. Two bodies floating in pools of blood like once-bright boats in colorfully morbid seas dotting the countryside of the alleyway.

  Once upon a time, Scott screamed. And riding the crest of that wave of sound, he felt sound return to the universe. He held the two bodies to his chest and cried. Because once upon a time, he had been happy. But now the fairy tale was over, and it would never end happily ever after. It would end, night after night in his dreams for the rest of his life, in bodies and blood and death. It would end in a lonely city where over four million people lived as strangers for the brief period of weeks or months or years or a lifetime.

  It would end here, with the blood of his child and wife on his hands, and in the knowledge that not only would he never live happily ever after, but he would likely never be truly happy for another moment as long as he lived.

  Once upon a time, the fairy tale ended, and Scott hated God for making him believe that it would go on forever.

  ***

  3.

  ***

  Lynette Randall's day started with her death, and ended with birth.

  She awoke as she had every single night of her pregnancy, which was now in its thirtieth week: needing to pee and wanting to eat. Peeing came first, of course, if for no
other reason than eating from an opened tub of ice cream while pee-bloated was a singularly unpleasant feeling.

  So she flipped the covers off herself, careful to keep them on her side of the bed. Contrary to popular belief, the only guarantee in life was neither death nor taxes: it was that if she allowed any portion of her covers to stray over onto Robbie's side of the bed, he would instantly wrap them around himself like some kind of burlesque dancer's boa, making it impossible to remove from him without either waking him up and having him physically unwind himself, or simply yanking any available end of the blankets hard enough to spin him like a yo-yo, catapulting him out of bed and at the same time returning her portion of the blankets to her.

  She had never, as yet, tried the yo-yo version of the solution, but there were nights when she was tempted to try.

  Not tonight, though. Tonight she was extra-careful to get out of bed as slowly and quietly as possible. Robbie was a light sleeper at the best of times, and she often woke him as she went on her nightly pee-and-eat quest. Sometimes Robbie stayed awake far after she did, occasionally even going the rest of the night without a wink of sleep. But Lynette knew that he had a long day scheduled at work, and the last thing she wanted to do was send him off to his job cranky and operating at only partial capacity.

  So, moving with the stealth and care of a ninja, she slipped out of the covers (careful to keep them on her side as much as possible), and then went to the bathroom. After finishing there, she crept through her and Robbie's room into the hall. She stopped there to glance into the baby's partially finished room. They had another two-plus months, so there was no crib, no mobile, no baby monitor. Just an empty room that Robbie had painted so recently that the smell of the paint still hung in the air and nauseated her if she subjected her sensitive pregnant nose to it for more than a few minutes.